I. Bridgeport
I don't see any bridges or ports
Just broken bricks and worn luggage that seems to be fading into the tracks.
The glass is so dirty, no one cares that the bridges and ports are begging for help.
Maybe the bridges were burned
Maybe the ports perished in the smoke of the burned bridges
The racket of a city begging to be saved shakes the tracks to their tiny toes
And we continue on, screams echoing behind our tickets.

II. The River
The smoke stacks are pouring out their souls in the form of greasy gray sadness.
They watch the people fishing on the rocks
Watch them try to catch some meaning or reason.
It's an inside joke between them and the marshes across the water
Their detailed plans for destruction are hidden away in the gray smoke that pours from their pipes
I caught them pouting as the last car passed them without paying tribute.

III. New Haven
A jungle made of metal and browning stones
A village built from steel and concrete
and the backbreaking labor of a thousand machines.
The sun comes out but only to see its reflection in the glint of the steel metal jungle.
How selfish.
I need a cigarette. Now.

IV. A Pause or maybe an interruption.
Behind the sick sneakers and the mirrored eyes of a writer
is a secret.
What is the secret? How deeply is it seeded?
When paths collide for a reason, everyone seems to lie.
Making up addresses and following an endless trail of giant yellow dots
I'll have to wait until Springfield to figure this one out.

V. A Track Change
A hesitant start, an unsure beginning full of questions
The other side seems greener, has more colors
and more desire for attention.
The ghosts are hiding in every twist and turn
As the pace changes so does my word.
The hillside slopes down to here
Abandoning me in the middle of 2 passing trains.
I am ready for this change of direction.
I am okay with falling down this way.

VI. Wallingford
These fences are barbaric.
The rust is threaded with medieval metals that slice confidence like bread.
This town is half asleep.
Its colors pretend to be cheerful
But the cars are dozing off in the lots
next to the men napping on splintering benches.
The railroad ties tie the town down
Holding it in place until the next train jolts it from slumber again
I wonder what simple living is like.

VII. Traffic on the Air Waves (Meriden)
I want to sit under one of these trees.
Sit between the bricks and cry for a while.
Fingers holding my forehead in place while I wonder why I do the things I do.
Those yellow flowers are promising me that everything will be okay.
I close my eyes and feel the branches get tangled in my hair
I feel the salt drying up my skin
Slipping past my fingers
Running down the only tracks they know of.
Be strong. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Let go.

VIII. Somewhereville, Connecticut
I didn't catch the name of this town.
That's okay though, names don't mean anything anyway.
Apparently they only drink Bud Light here
That must make tap water feel uncomfortable.
At least the river is moving
The ducks sure seem to enjoy themselves here
All I see is ladders and mounds of unfinished business.
The parking lots are empty.
Maybe I dreamed this one up.

IX. Adventure Spirit
There is no way I am going to chat with the writer with AIDS in his legs.

X. Hartford
I see the guts of a city hanging down to its chin.
This city whispers in my ears
Giggling out its secrets like we are little girls at a slumber party.
I like the curves of the bending metal
Framing the face of a sweet smile
Blue eyes to go with blue skies
of proud eager importance.
We could all learn something from Hartford.

XI. 20 minutes from Springfield
These woods remind me of home
Make me want to curl up on a blanket in the sun
Lose myself in words on a page that don't belong to me
I'm home I'm home I'm home
It's okay my home has no name either.
We give away our old clothes and shoes too
Cover the tired, time tolled backs and feet
I love to share.
I've got to find the key to the lock I put on myself.
Damn loose keys.

XII. Springfield Itself
It is actually a field of spring.
You could watch the sunrise or the sunset from those riverside benches.
Is something wrong Springfield? Are you okay?
You just look upset. Nevermind.
I can already see signs of my finality.
This journey is nearly over.

XIII. Flashback
Be still, racing heart.
Settle down while I do another.
Another day, another regret
Another bundle of meaningless paper.
You change me until you snub me
But at least I've always got another.

XIV. Admissions
My handwriting is now sloppy.
My fingers are too slow.
A five dollar Corona was the only way to escape from the memories I do not miss.
The man with the AIDS in his legs is smarter than I am
Has twice as much experience as I do
I am guilty of many things
Please forgive me for my wrongs.

XV. Nearing the End
The conductor told me about an hour
After we left Springfield.
But I am still learning, still looking for the piece I blatantly missed.
I am not ready for the end, I have only just begun
I wish I didn't mean that in more ways than one
Oh fuck, I promised myself I wouldn't rhyme
Now I am two steps over the line.
We're moving so slowly, but it's okay, I need this.
I am not ready for the end, I have only just begun.

-LBR.